


Not That Kind of Victorian Love Story

by CaptainStormChaser



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Blood Drinking, Knifeplay, M/M, Mentions of Prostitution, Peter Parker is 18, non explicit sexual content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-05
Updated: 2019-03-05
Packaged: 2019-11-12 08:26:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18007340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainStormChaser/pseuds/CaptainStormChaser
Summary: Tony’d found him at a party.With his brown curls atop his head and his cheeks and lips rosy, he was nearly cherubic.Large doe eyes looked up at Tony. “Thank you, Mister Stark.”





	Not That Kind of Victorian Love Story

Tony’d found him at a party. A society party, for those who abhorred polite society.

He’d been sitting on a chaise lounge, everyone around him laughing at what he’d said, sipping champagne—real champagne, mind you, not just any bubbly white wine, because that’s how it was done back then—between an engaged couple. With the close press of the room and the light, tipsy atmosphere maintained by having no one dull nor sober present, the gentleman’s hand covertly kneaded Tony’s ass while Tony subtly fondled the young lady’s.

It was comfortable. Everyone knew each other, or at least knew someone who knew everyone they didn’t, the air was hazy with smoke from cigars, or opium in a few corners, and the booze was plenty.

The height of luxury, and the perfect hunting ground.

Tony couldn’t help the way his head turned at the slap of flesh, the enticing scent of sweet blood.

There was a boy of on the far side of the room, clutching a pinkened cheek. He was dressed properly, though cheaply, clothes threadbare and likely unable to absorb his tears if they fell past his eye lids.

A man was hunching over him, hissing in whisper too quiet and far away even for Tony to hear.

Tony scarcely remembered crossing the room. Because suddenly he was right there, putting his hand in the small of man’s back.

“Norman,” Tony greeted warmly. “So good to see you again.”

Osborn’s jaw twitched, but he straightened. “Stark. It’s been a while.”

The boy quietly retreated an extra step to the wall, and Osborn returned with a sharp glare that froze him in place.

Tony put his other hand on Osborn’s shoulder. Casual touch would draw attention away from what was going on, leave one susceptible to persuasion. Even without enthralling him. “And you know what they say about absence and fond hearts and all that. How are you enjoying the party?”

“It’s a fine party.” Osborn answered tightly. “Only my own choice in company is wanting.”

Tony’s eyes flickered to the boy—the slap must have caught his teeth, for there was no denying the hypnotic scent of blood now—before he laughed haughtily. He patted Osborn’s shoulder twice. “Hardly a complaint at all.” He lowered his voice conspiratorially. “I heard our hostess has arranged for much more accommodating entertainment than some plain faced castrato. With everyone distracted, you could easily have first pick when they arrive. I’d join you, but...” Tony cast a longing look to the fiancé and fiancée on the chaise, now necking animatedly. “I’m otherwise engaged.”

Osborn regarded Tony with some degree of suspicion. “Madam Jones sent you over, didn’t she?”

Tony smiled sheepishly, recalling a moment later that Madam Jones was in fact their host. “She wants her guests to enjoy themselves. That is what the entertainment is for, after all.”

“And I’m sure she’ll want me to sample whatever bouquet she’s arranged for this time.”

Tony quirked an eyebrow. “Best do it while the flowers are fresh.” He joked.

And then that slimy little goblin of a man was laughing and clapping Tony on the shoulder and off looking for the prostitutes Tony had invented up.

Once Osborn was gone, Tony turned his attention to the boy. “Are you alright?”

The young man nodded, then realized himself and answered “yes, sir.”

“What’s your name?”

“Peter, sir.”

Peter. Sweet and nearly infantile on Tony’s tongue. The bleed in his mouth had nearly gone, quick as mouths were to clot.

Tony held out his own glass of wine, which the boy regarded curiously before he accepted, draining what remained all at once.

Peter nearly snorted it all back up, starting a coughing fit. “My nose,” he explained as it subsided. “The bubbles.”

At the very least, Peter looked much more hale with a flush to his cheeks. With his brown curls atop his head and his cheeks and lips rosy, he was nearly cherubic.

Large doe eyes looked up at Tony. “Thank you, Mister Stark.”

* * *

For the weeks that followed, Peter had Tony’s undivided attention. They made love for hours, the young man reduced to a mewling mess on Tony sheets nearly from dusk until dawn. The time between was interspersed with long talks of the sciences, which Peter held great aptitude for. Tony remarked on more than one occasion that Peter had a mind that wouldn’t be out of place at the university, should he wish.

The servants took care of Peter’s needs while Tony slept, keeping him well fed and well socialized until their master could rise to dote upon the boy.

Peter was particularly fond of Tony’s kisses on his neck, begging for them before anything else some nights, even not knowing what they were after Tony had licked the wounds away.

It was Karen, in fact, who made mention of it to Tony. Peter had garnered some matronly affection in her. A casual remark in his ear at dinner that made him look up and notice.

Though he ate and slept enough, Peter had a concerning pallor to him, a minute tremble to his extremities and dark bruises beneath his eyes and along his throat.

Tony felt a sinking feeling in his gut. So distracted was he that he’d allowed himself to overindulge shamelessly.

“I’ll be going out tonight.” Tony announced, and Peter turned to him. “Only for a few hours.” If he glutted himself intermittently, he could subsist on only the bare minimum required to give Peter pleasure.

Peter looked briefly disappointed, but said nothing of it. Tony took it like a dagger to the heart, but it was necessary he leave for a while to feed.

He wouldn’t allow himself to endanger his lovely boy’s health again.

* * *

Tony returned home after midnight, drunk on intoxicated blood.

Peter waited for him in the front parlor, knees pulled up beneath him and his most recent novel in his lap.

Beautiful eyes found Tony’s, then lowered in concern.

Tony blinked past the haze in his mind, and looked down. Ah.

His shirt, crisp and white at the beginning of the night, was stained dark at the collar. Some clumsiness he hadn’t noticed when his meal had been part absinthe.

An unforgivable failure, making his blood go cold with the realization that he would not have his Peter in his arms again but as a corpse once this bright boy learned the blood wasn’t Tony’s.

It surprised Tony next, naturally, when Peter unfolded his legs and approached Tony calmly. He threaded his long fingers in Tony’s hair, and pulled their mouths together. Peter moaned. When they parted, he said he hoped Tony was full enough to fuck him without distraction. Peter produced something he’d had hidden in his hand.

A letter opener, Tony realized, from the desk in the corner. He watched transfixed as Peter drew it across his ribs—along the lines of Langer, he realized. Clever boy had thought about— _planned_ for—this for god knows how long. The cut was narrow and shallow, about four fingers’ width long. Peter looked at Tony from beneath lidded eyes, and the immortal was quickly licking along the wound.

Tony had Peter right there on the parlor floor, licking into that lovely mouth and no longer bothering to hide the sharpness of his teeth or the absolute way he hungered for his lover.

Peter in turn did not shy away, greedily accepting everything Tony offered and giving all he had himself.

“You must away to bed, my love.” Peter whispered, his fingers playing in Tony’s hair while the pair lay sated and entangled on the rugs. “Dawn approaches.”

Indeed, even beyond the dark velvet curtains of the parlor, ambient light began to seep into the room.

Tony stretched out, taking in the radiant sight of Peter beside him. “My bed holds no rest for me,” he confessed, taking Peter’s hand in his. “Without you, it is colder than all the centuries I have spent alone. My eyes ache to open and see you, my arms yearn to pull you close,”

* * *

**Present Day ******

********  
“Oh, bullshit!” Peter chortled, nearly spitting up his drink. “You always tell it like some grand Victorian love story,”

“It was!” Tony protested indignantly, but Peter didn’t pause.

“And you make it seem like I’m some swooning maiden in need of seducing. As if I didn’t singlehandedly figure out your secret and then protect it when Osborn tried to _buy_ me from you! Which you didn’t mention, by the way, along with me _saving your life_ a dozen times, or about how I had to practically _beg_ you—for six years, Tony—to change me!” Peter crossed his arms.

Tony sputtered, trying to come up with a reply, but Barnes beat him to it.

“Sounds like the kid’s version ain’t so bodice-ripper, Stark.” The wolf grinned.

“I’m older than you!” Peter shot back.

“Yeah?” Barnes leaned forward over the coffee table. “Lemme see your ID.”

There was laughter, and Clint returned to the living room with a half dozen pizza boxes, complaining about how no one had paused the movie when he left to answer the door.

Next Natasha and Steve were debating on who should have next pick, though neither seemed willing to take the final step and snatch up the remote from Sam’s cold dead fingers. Thor was talking to Bruce about the practical side of wormholes, and Rhodey was entertaining Scott’s seemingly endless questions and enthusiasm.

Peter curled into Tony’s side, the circle of friends they’d collected talking and laughing around them.

And it was good.

**Author's Note:**

> Langer lines are the arrangement of collagen fibers in the skin and subcutaneous layer. By cutting with the lines rather than against them, Peter made a wound that would heal faster and scar less.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! Please leave a comment.


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